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I keep a small notebook where I log every pigment I've ever bought: the manufacturer, the series number, the lightfastness rating, the date I first mixed it, and a brush swipe of the color once it's dried. Forty-seven pages now, and this afternoon I counted. I have eleven different blues. That's not a confession of extravagance. Eleven blues each do a genuinely different thing, and I can defend every single one of them. But then I flipped to the greens and realized I own six viridian-adjacent tubes that are, if I'm being honest with myself, within a hair of each other on the page. One of them I bought because the shop had it in a display tray and the label was printed in a serif typeface I liked. I teach a class every spring, and I tell my students the first week that you need exactly three yellows, two reds, and two blues, and everything else is laziness or vanity. I believe that, too. It's just that I am apparently a very good student and a very poor practitioner of my own advice. The serif typeface got me.

Six weeks ago I started posting the failures. Not the poetic ones, the actual duds: a smalti panel where I got the andamento wrong on a face and the nose reads like a shelf, a batch of tile I cut too thin that shattered the moment I pressed it in. Numbers, since this channel likes numbers. Reach went up maybe 40%. Comments dropped by half. And the DMs changed completely. Before, I got "how much for this" from people who never once converted. Now I get "I have my grandmother's broken marble table, could it become something" and three of those turned into paid commissions in six weeks. One from a woman in Kalamaria whose table is now a hallway panel and she cried when she picked it up. The "how much" crowd was never going to buy. They liked the finished photo, that is all. The people who write to you about the wreckage are the ones who understand you actually make the thing with your hands and want a piece of that. Also, small confession, I sleep better. Nobody claps for a shattered tile. Feels closer to the work.

Lads, I have a confession. The hare print sold out before Christmas, all forty of them gone, and I'm still in the workshop every night gouging away at the same block like a lunatic. Told myself I was doing a second run. I even bought the paper, a big sheet of Fabriano I sliced down at the kitchen table on Sunday while the young fella ate his Weetabix and judged me silently. But that's a lie. I'm not running an edition. I'm just carving her over and over because I haven't figured out the next thing yet and I can't stand the quiet of a blank block sitting there. You know the way it goes. Every printmaker has the one image that pays the rent and pays the soul and they don't always line up. And when you're between ideas you reach for the thing your hands already know, and you tell yourself it's practice, and it is, sort of, but it's also hiding. My wife asked me the other night how long I was going to keep at the hare and I said grand, not long, and she gave me the look. She knows the look she's getting back. Sitting there with a fresh cup of tea going cold beside me, six hours in, and I'd swear I've made the ears slightly better each time. Which is the problem. They're fine. They were fine the first time. Anyway. I'll stop.

I will start. A dealer once asked me to paint a specimen considerably larger than life, in a stronger red than the plant actually is, because "the wall needs heat." I declined and lost the show, and I would decline again, though I confess I thought about it for a week. So: what has a gallery or curator asked you to alter? Size, palette, framing, subject, a background that isn't there in nature. Did you hold your ground or give in, and how did it turn out either way? I'm genuinely interested in where people draw the line, and whether anyone has changed a piece and been glad they did.

did the math last night because rent is due and i was avoiding opening the bank app. since january i've bought 14 tubes. used 4 of them. the other 10 are sitting in a drawer like little expensive witnesses. the stupid part is i know exactly why. buying a new color feels like starting a new painting, and starting a new painting feels better than finishing the one on the easel that's been fighting me since march. so i buy the tube, feel a little hit of promise, put it in the drawer, go back to the same six colors i always use. anyway the drawer is now a graveyard of good intentions and i'm still on the same six colors. not really a complaint. more of a confession.

I've spent this whole week on the same young woman's portrait, and I mean the same one, over and over. Nine versions on the easel now, taped to the wall like some kind of confession. Every time I get the eyes almost right and something else collapses, usually the mouth. Her lips are not expressive exactly, just slightly parted, and I cannot for the life of me get that to stop looking like hesitation. My partner keeps saying he can't even tell them apart, which I think is meant to be reassuring. It is not reassuring. But today the tenth one, I don't know what changed. Maybe I stopped trying so hard. The smudge on her cheekbone that I've been fighting all week just... stayed. And it's the one. The one I meant all along. So of course now I'm already scared I'll never do it again. That's the thing nobody warns you about. The good ones feel like accidents you didn't earn. Anyway. Leaving it up overnight. Not touching it till morning, that's the rule I never keep. Wish me luck. 🙂

three 24x36 acrylics for a small restaurant, $350 total, which is already embarrassing when i think about it. they loved them. framed them nice, hung them where people actually see them. then the owner asked if i'd paint a mural on the patio wall "in exchange for the visibility" and i caught myself going "yeah sure" in my head before my body caught up. visibility doesn't pay my rent, karen. it pays in likes from people who will also want a discount. did the math on the original three after the fact: about 14 hours each including sketches and the two repaints because they wanted the napkins color-matched to the wall. so $8.33 an hour. an hour. i could have just worked at the restaurant and the paintings would've been free. i said yes to the mural anyway. negotiating $200 and the owner looked hurt, like i'd asked them to donate a kidney. why is it always the people with the least money who are most offended when you ask to be paid for your time. i don't know if this is a pricing vent or a confession but it's both. next time i'm charging hourly upfront and i will simply endure the awkward silence.

I got my first gallery by walking in off the street with a portfolio case, which today people act like I'm confessing to something embarrassing. But I walked in, asked if I could show the director my work, she had ten minutes between meetings, and she took me on. I know it's not the usual way now, everything is email, submissions, Instagram DMs. But I also know artists who've done it recently and it worked. So I'm asking: did you ever just walk into a gallery cold and get somewhere with it? Or is that completely dead and I'm just old? Me: Lyon, 2008, walked into a small gallery in the 1st, came back three days later with paintings. Stayed with them five years.

Right, I'll go first so nobody feels like they're confessing into the void. I said yes to a spot years back in a town I won't name. Small room, nice light, chap seemed sound, and about a week before the show he started asking if I'd "do the framing myself, like, to save us both a few bob." Grand, sure. Then he wanted a cut of the door on the opening night. Then he wanted me to help paint the fecking walls. I was that thrilled to have a wall at all that I said yes to every one of them and did the walls badly. Ended up fine, sold a few, learned nothing, went back to him twice more. That's the honest part. I didn't learn anything for years. So, what was the earliest red flag you spotted and ignored anyway? The deposit that never quite happened, the "we'll sort money after", the gallery that's actually a cafe with hooks, the landlord's cousin who "knows art people". Give me the one that had you going ah here, that's not right, and then you signed anyway. Not looking for the horror stories where it all went wrong, I want the small ones. The ones you talked yourself past. Tell me I'm not the only eejit.

Right so, small confession. Years ago I stopped trying to carve cold lino. You'd be fighting the stuff, the tool skidding, the surface like a frozen jaffa, and you'd blame your hands when really the block was just stone cold. So now the kettle goes on the minute I get in. Not for tea, not at first anyway. I sit the block on an old tea towel beside it, let it take the warmth for ten minutes while I have the actual tea and stare at the drawing and convince myself I know what I'm doing. Means the studio smells faintly of burnt dust and hot rubber now. Which is a smell I've come to love and absolutely nobody else would. The wife came in last week to call me for dinner, saw the block propped up on the towel like a patient in a hospital bed, and just looked at me. "It's not even a real setting, Niall." It is though. It's the setting between boil and off. That's a setting. Anyway I'm midway through a big heron piece, 40cm by 60cm, three blocks for it, and the grey block is the one giving me trouble. Grey always takes the warmth worse than the brown. I'm aware how mental that sentence would sound to anyone outside this room. What's the mad ritual you'd have to explain with a straight face? I'll read them all tonight before I go back to the heron.

The gallery that loved my work but never sold a piece A gallery in my city took me on years ago, warm people, they hung my paintings properly, good light, private views with real collectors in the room. And nothing ever sold. Two years. Not one piece. They kept saying the work was beautiful, serious, exactly what their clients should want. Eventually I asked, gently, who was buying what. It turned out everything that moved was small, abstract, or cheap. My big figurative interiors just sat there looking at everyone. So my question is more of a confession with an ask: when did you figure out that a gallery's taste or enthusiasm has nothing to do with whether they can sell you? And what was the sign you ignored for too long? For me it was the phrase "we love it, give it time." They loved it for two years. My bank account did not.

priced a commission at what i actually need to make per hour for the first time instead of whatever i thought they'd stomach. did the math in front of them too. "materials plus 28 hours at x." fully expected the haggle. they just said cool and sent the deposit. now i'm annoyed because it means i've been lowballing myself for like three years for no reason and the ceiling was never real, it was in my head. classic. idk if this is marketing advice or a confession. i think it's both. if you're freelance stop pricing like you're apologizing for existing. the worst they can do is say no and then you're no worse off than when you didn't ask.

I spent two hours this afternoon laying down a single wash of ultramarine on a hellebore petal. Not the whole flower, the one petal. Stretched the paper, masked the veins, wet it just so, and let the pigment settle in three passes, waiting fully between each. Most people would call that wasted time. It isn't. That blue has to sit like a film of stained glass, and there's no shortcut to it. What I actually find curious is that I don't resent the slowness anymore. Ten years ago it would have chafed. Now there's something almost meditative in the waiting, in watching the water leave the paper and the pigment decide where it wants to live. Some of my students fight it terribly. They want the petal finished in an afternoon, and they'd rather have a muddy result than a patient one. I'll confess I'm glad the hellebore is done. But I'll also own that I'm a little sorry the waiting is over.

just admitted to someone that i've never actually cleaned a palette knife, i just scrape the dried paint off with another palette knife and then eventually buy a new one. they looked at me like i'd confessed to a crime. i know it's not efficient. i know the dried bits contaminate color. i don't care. there's something weirdly satisfying about the scrape sound and i've gotten to a point with some colors where i can tell exactly which layer of dried paint i'm digging into by the pitch of it. that's not a skill i asked for but here we are. also my "clean" palette is just a bigger pile of dry paint I chip off with my fingernail. i'm 33 and i paint like a feral beast and i am fine with that.

Ok confession: I've been painting on scraps and old cardboard for weeks because I was too scared to touch the good linen. Told myself it was "economic" but really I was just terrified of wasting a $40 surface on a bad idea. So today I went and bought 12 mid-range canvases, stacked them by the easel, and just started throwing charcoal at the first one with zero plan. The first one's already a mess. I love it. That's the thing, when the surface is cheap enough to ruin you actually take risks and then you make the weirdest stuff. I keep having to learn this lesson over and over. 😭 Anyone else hoard their good supplies like it's the last loaf of bread? Because I need to know I'm not alone. I've got entire drawers of nice brushes I'm "saving" for something.

i have a drawer in my studio, just a cheap ikea thing, that's full of plates that didn't work. bitten too deep, not deep enough, a drypoint that caught something i didn't mean but also didn't hate enough to keep. i can't throw them out. they're not good, most of them, but they're the only record i have of the thinking that didn't land. i was talking to a painter friend in berlin last week and she said she scrapes everything over, her whole practice is covering. that's the opposite of what i do. i keep the evidence. maybe it's the printmaker in me, this need for the object to survive even when it fails. or maybe i'm just sentimental about my own bad decisions. anyway i pulled one out today from three years ago. a copper plate with a portrait of a woman who doesn't exist. the face is completely fine but the hand is this grotesque claw because i misjudged the acid. i remember being so furious. now i kind of like the claw. it's the most alive part of the image. i don't know if this is a confession or a habit worth defending. but i wonder, what do you keep that you probably shouldn't?